


The Story in Your Eyes

by hystericalwomannovelist



Category: The Good Fight (TV)
Genre: F/M, episode filler, smut with feelings etc the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24237865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hystericalwomannovelist/pseuds/hystericalwomannovelist
Summary: There is a precise and definite moment when Diane senses something has changed, sitting there next to her husband, forced into the world of this absurd play.
Relationships: Diane Lockhart/Kurt McVeigh
Comments: 46
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

There is a precise and definite moment when Diane senses something has changed, sitting there next to her husband, forced into the world of this absurd play. It is not any perceptible difference in Kurt's expression or body language at first, but still she is attuned to some shift in his mood, or perhaps the quality of his attention. She glances sideways at him, much more interested in this now than anything playing out on the stage before them. 

She cannot be sure the play itself has prompted this, as it emerges during a rare quiet moment, her supposed double offstage, some minor player who means nothing to him delivering a monologue on the meaning of law and justice. Perhaps he is reflecting on the more provocative scenes that came before, or his mind has drifted somewhere else altogether. Wherever his thoughts are, she feels that change almost physically, an electric shock passing from his arm to hers, pressed together there on their shared armrest.

As soon as he notices he is being watched, he returns her gaze, something hard and inscrutable playing out there before it softens into an equally enigmatic smile. He turns his attention back to the stage a moment later with a concentration that surprises her, but at least, she reflects, he is not bored. How many plays, and orchestra concerts, and lecture series has she dragged him to over the years, uncomplaining, but secretly counting down the clock? Sure, she had made as much space for his interests in their life together, and there was something lovely in that give and take, but that didn't mean he had to love it. But this had certainly not bored him; perplexed, yes, disgusted at times, she thought, but now as she tries to study his profile she is not sure. Whatever he makes of it, something now seems to have fascinated him. 

She moves to hook her arm around his, sliding her fingers down his forearm and pulling the cuff of his shirt back slightly to expose his wrist. She runs her nails lightly across the skin there, on the delicate underside of his wrist, lazily brushing back and forth. It is a loving gesture she had adopted at some point when curling up on the couch together to watch television had become a regular part of their routine. This evening was far from regular, but something in this change in the mood between them draws her to be closer to him, needing some physical contact.

He turns his wrist over on the armrest, welcoming her to continue, and something about this – perhaps it is only the power of suggestion, relentless yelps of pain and pleasure coming from the stage – feels more erotically charged than soothing. He presses his shoulder back against hers meaningfully, and lets his head drift closer, though he doesn't say anything. She is very aware suddenly of all the various smells she identifies as Kurt, and equally aware he is taking in everything he identifies as Diane. This realization makes her dig her nails in, very slightly.

Anyone else in the audience would see nothing more pass between them, no escalation of physicality, or further drift into the other's space. But through the whole second half of the play, gradual and steady, Diane can feel, very palpably, the vibe between them grow and intensify. If there had been an intermission, she would have wanted to search for a closet to drag him into. If the play had been an hour longer, she might have found out if she is capable of getting off from thoughts alone. As it is, when the lights came up and half the audience rose for a standing ovation, Diane feels almost breathless from whatever has been brewing between them. 

She turns to him and tries to make a joke, if only to confirm she is able to feign propriety as long as she must. “Do you want to stand for that?”

He grimaces in an exaggerated fashion. “Not sure I understood enough of it to.”

“Honestly,” she laughs, “me neither. Let's get out of here.” 

She leans down to grab her purse, apologetically squeezing past the others in their row, who are intent on giving the production rousing applause. As she makes her way to the stairs as best she can, she is aware of his hand lightly at her hip, maintaining contact to ensure no one slips between them. The gesture is one either of them might perform on any ordinary occasion, but this time his fingers feel like fire on her. She glances down at her watch as soon as they are free. 

“We might be a little late for our dinner reservation, but I think they'll hold our table,” she says, glancing back over her shoulder at him, not at all sure she would be disappointed if they did not. 

“Actually,” he says, his voice an unexpected growl in her ear from behind. His hand tightens its hold slightly. “Why don't we just go home.”

It is a decision more than a suggestion, and as she turns to fully take him in, that current of electricity passes between them again. There is no world she can imagine in which she would disagree.

She pulls him a little out of the way of the flow of traffic, unable to resist teasing him. “Aren't you hungry?” she asks, covering his hand, still glued to her, with her own. 

“I'm starving,” he says, his gaze intensifying and then drifting slowly down the length of her body. She hardly needed that underlined, but such a stark message from her normally reserved husband unmoored her. 

She is momentarily stunned, but just as suddenly turns back toward the aisle with a renewed sense of purpose. “Get the coats, I'll hail a cab,” she says, not waiting for a reply.

~~~

Silently she curses their earlier decision to take a cab, sensible as it seemed at the time, in case they had had too much to drink at dinner. With a sideways glance at him she knows he is entertaining the exact same thought. His brow is furrowed as he looks out at the city he has learned to love for her, stuck in post-theater traffic, his hand almost comically clenched on his knee. Smiling softly, feeling every bit of his frustration, she reaches out and loosens his grip, sliding her fingers between his. He meets her gaze then, flashing her a smile that gradually modulates from an exaggerated agony to almost wolfish anticipation. 

The look sends a shiver down her spine, promising things to come, and the sudden sense that she may not be quite so sure what that amounts to. He squeezes her hand lightly, and she returns the pressure, scooting sideways in the seat to be a little closer to him. 

This is about as much of a public display as he is willing to put on, she knows, flicking a look toward the driver and willing him to go faster. It would have been a different matter altogether if they had taken their car. Whether he had been driving or she, by now his hand would be on her knee instead, not holding her hand in chaste frustration, but maddeningly slowly and with the lightest possible touch drifting up her leg, under her skirt, and not stopping unless they made it home first. On reflection, she isn't sure that would have been any less dangerous than sharing a bottle of wine or two, but they've never been able to help it when they are this drunk on each other. Her hand tightens around his as she thinks, with the mood growing heavy and urgent between them as it is, they might not have made it in the house at all.

She wonders if he is still thinking the same thing, or if her thoughts are carrying her a bit too far, too fast. He clears his throat and sits up a little straighter, and she is aware now of the slightest bulge in his lap, confirming plainly enough that they are on the same page. She bites her lip and looks up at him, trying and failing to hold back her grin of appreciation. He lets his head fall back against the headrest and turns to look at her sideways, whispering, “Don't.”

“I didn't do anything,” she laughs, making an innocent gesture with her free hand. But she sits back now as well, letting him collect himself or follow that train of thought as he chooses. She won't be held responsible for his lack of control, she thinks with a smug smile she keeps to herself now, not for merely sitting next to him. Entirely his concern if he finds her irresistible. She recrosses her legs, very slowly, her skirt falling an inch higher as she does. She can feel his eyes on her without turning to verify.


	2. Chapter 2

They're barely in the door before he has her pressed against it, knocking her off balance with a precise and careful measure of force: sure not to hurt her, but equally sure his intentions are quite clear. She is laughing as she falls backward, happy to give herself over to gravity, and to him. Her hands curl around his neck instinctively, pulling him closer and encouraging him while she says out loud, “What's gotten into you?”

“You,” he rasps, pressing rough kisses against her neck, his hands firmly on both her hips holding her there in place, not that she is in any rush to move. There had been no question of what would happen the moment they were alone, not for agonizing hours pressed close together but unable to touch, really touch. But still the weight and urgency of his desire is almost shocking to her, as his hands roam freely under her unbuttoned coat now, his kisses ravenous, his cock almost instantly hardening for her. 

She feels like she is fumbling to catch up to him, out of practice with this pace. When was the last time? She can't help but wonder vaguely, even as present events were almost more than she could take in. When had he been so – _desperate_ for her? Whatever it was that had caught his interest, she was going to feel the full benefit of that. She pulls him closer, his excitement fueling hers, and if she is behind it is only by a step, each responding to the other in kind and degree.

He pulls back just enough to give her space to shrug out of her coat, which she tosses to the floor with a resolute flourish, grinning wildly at him as she takes his face in both hands and falls back against the door again. He lets his own coat fall in a heap beside it, pressing his body even more insistently against hers, imploring her to feel the effect she has on him. 

His hand slides into her hair as his lips drop to her neck again, devouring what little more skin is available to him now, his other hand gently pressing her back against the door every time she tries to buck up against him. The gesture brings to mind some hazy sense memory; she isn't sure if it's a specific time or the blend of many she is thinking of, when he has delayed her in quite this way, enjoying her while he frustrates her every attempt to do the same. All at once the image comes back to her, that blue dress as vivid for her as she had hoped it might be for him when she had selected it, pressed against the door of his hotel room in just the same way, that first time they were together. She shivers, thrilled by this sudden vague knowledge that everything had changed, and yet nothing had changed at all between them. God, how he had wanted her that night, too; and when she watched him light up as she stalked back into his life as easily as she'd left it, his eyes wild and grateful like a man saved, she knew then what kind of power she had over him. 

“Here? Bedroom?” She prompts him, knowing if they go on too long like this she will lose her mind. Especially now that she has conjured the thought of her lover Kurt, in all its wrongness then, and her husband Kurt, perfectly right in every way she gave a damn about, pinning her against this door simultaneously. 

He pulls back, seemingly overwhelmed by the possibilities, but then says, his voice dark and low, “Yeah. Bedroom.”

The notion that he has something specific in mind is suddenly dizzying, and she has to make a joke to steady herself. “It feels like this is where you whisk me off and carry me.”

He laughs, his head dropping before he looks up at her with a disarmingly boyish grin. “You want me to?”

“God, no,” she says, stepping out of her heels, and shrinking a few inches in the process. “Let's not break your back tonight. Not like that at least, eh?”

The devilish glint in her eye sparks him all over again. “Bedroom,” repeats, a directive this time. 

She half-runs toward the stairs, looking back at him to make sure he follows, yelping as he charges at her unexpectedly. They are both laughing at the ridiculousness of it all as he chases her up the stairs, grabbing for her and then letting her get away each time, until they reach the bedroom and she is caught, quite willingly.

He kisses her again, both a little out of breath and still laughing, and backs her slowly up against their bed. She has lost all sense of spatial awareness, the back of her knees striking the mattress much sooner than she expected, and she tumbles back against it. This is exactly as he planned, she can tell by his grin. She props herself up on her elbows, looking up at him as he comes to stand in front of her. 

“What do you want?” she asks lightly, one hand reaching out for him, but from this position all she can do is graze his leg before her hand falls uselessly back to her side. She studies him thoughtfully, her mind drifting back to the play for a moment, wondering what one thing has to do with the other. But she dismisses it as easily as it came; nothing scares her, with him. “I want what you want.”

“I told you,” he said, suddenly turning much more serious. “I'm starving.”

With no further preamble, he drops to his knees, and she groans as she falls back against the bed before he has even touched her. He kisses her knee, her thigh, pulling her skirt up higher as he goes, letting teeth and tongue graze her as he pleases. Normally he would torture her, tease her for ages before he makes proper contact, but he is determined tonight, unrelenting. He pulls off her panties and hose hastily, down her long legs and free of her feet, tossing them to the side. He dives into her, his tongue probing for her clit, swirling round a few times before his mouth clamps down, sucking hard. She gasps, unprepared for this; dazed, she thinks she might have kicked him, she hopes not hard.

She gives herself over to this, her hands, idly at first, and then with intention, roaming over her body. She pulls her blouse free of her skirt, letting her fingers drift underneath, her skin sensitive to the lightest touch, even her own. This gives her some way of managing his frenzied assault on her, releasing button by button, steadying her breathing as she goes. When she is out of buttons, her hands massage her own breasts, squeezing harder than he ever would, even like this, her thumbs pressing roughly on her nipples in time with his ministrations. 

Soon enough she understands this is still torture, of a different kind. He devours her, true to his word, groaning in pleasure as he recognizes how ready her body is for him, even if her mind has not quite caught up. He swallows her wetness greedily, his tongue working furiously to pull more and more from her. Gradually she realizes that although he isn't making her wait to be touched, he isn't bringing her any closer to relief, either: backing off every time her breath hitches in her throat to betray how close she is, his tongue flitting around her maddeningly. She is quite powerless in this moment: he knows exactly how far he can push her without taking her over the edge. 

And then he ends it just as abruptly as he began, sitting back on his heels to gauge her response. 

“You can't stop there.” Her hands fall to her sides as she props herself up, feeling almost crazed. “That's cruel.”

“Who's stopping?” he teases her, rising to stand between her legs. He drinks her in: her exposed torso, rising and falling with her labored breathing, the curve of her breasts peeking out of that black lace bra; above all, the dawning understanding that she has been touching herself while he was doing that to her. “Diane...”

“You're stopping,” she says, adopting a mock pout as she slides back further on the bed, reaching out for him to follow. He continues watching her, fascinated by the way her body moves. He begins to slowly unbutton his own shirt. “Good. I want to feel you. Pants, too.”

He groans lightly as he does exactly that, easing his jeans and then his shorts over his erection. 

She forgets her impatience for a moment, the pounding in her core settling to a faint thrum, distracted now by the sight of him. “You know I think you're beautiful?” She isn't sure suddenly if she has ever said that to him.

He laughs, taken aback by that, gesturing up and down at himself as if to say, _This?_

She nods, still looking him over lasciviously. She extends her hand to him again and says, “C'mere.”

He takes it, following her onto the bed and pressing her back against it, his body molding perfectly around hers, the fabric of her skirt still separating them for now. “You're beautiful,” he says, leaning down to find her lips again, kissing her deeply and searchingly when they finally touch. She tastes herself, mingled with the taste of him, and she squirms beneath him, her body craving more. “You're unreal.”

“I'm very real,” she says, thrusting her hips up once against him to emphasize the point. She isn't sure now if he's hesitating, or if this is all part of the game. She can always read him, but the fact that she doesn't quite know what's in his mind tonight is part of the thrill, she can't pretend it's not. She reaches up to run her hand through his hair, a loving gesture she's not sure is what he needs right now. But he turns his head to kiss her palm, and lets his forehead fall against it. 

He reaches under her skirt then, and she knows the mood has changed again. She lies back, stretching her arms above her head, a relaxed and trusting cat, waiting to be stroked. He watches her move and respond to him as his fingers slip inside her, finding her ready and wanting more. The intensity of his gaze, alert to her every movement, is almost overwhelming. When his eyes finally drift from her writhing body slowly up to lock on her eyes, what passes between them is the closest to coming she's felt yet tonight. 

It's too much for him, too, and she sees him wince and let out a long exhale before dropping his head to one breast, leaving a trail of wet hungry kisses where her skin is exposed and then, searching over the thin layer of lace between them, latching on to and sucking hard on her nipple. The feeling of the rough fabric across her highly sensitized skin, soothed by his soft lips and saliva, is enough to make her buck up hard against his hand, demanding what he seems to be in no hurry to give.

He laughs almost wickedly, a low rumble against her skin as his mouth drifts lower to her braline, and then tracing a winding path down her exposed midsection. She can feel how hard he is breathing now, his breath first hot and ragged on her, then cooling and ticklish in the places where he has kissed and licked her. 

A little whine escapes her when she feels his fingers retreat and his head lift from feasting on her, bereft again of his touch. When she opens her eyes to question this, demand more, now, _please_ , he is hovering above her, braced on his forearms, his intense stare bearing down on her again.

Again she feels it is this wordless communion that could undo her. She doesn't need him to say it, whatever it is, not just now. He is endlessly expressive, if only you speak his language. 

“Fuck – Kurt –“ she breathes, these words seeming all the more useless for their purpose. He couldn't be closer to her, but still she is painfully aware of the empty space he has left, her body pulsing futilely around nothing. She thinks, the second you touch me I'm going to come.

“Huh uh,” he grunts in negation, and she isn't sure at all whether she's said that out loud, or if he can read her mind. She is certainly not at her most mysterious, pressing up against him as much as his hips, heavy on hers, will allow, her knees splayed shamelessly to either side.

He reaches down again and in one quick movement pulls her skirt up to her waist, and again he is inside her before her brain is quite ready for it, but her body is, rising to meet him, and pulling him in. He kisses her soundly, his hands on either side of her head, as if to block out all other senses but him in her field of vision, and the feeling of what he is doing to her. 

Now that he has begun to move inside her he takes no time to set a rhythm, breaking their kiss with a gasp for fresh air. She spreads her legs wider, opening herself up fully to what he is offering her, giving him all he wants to take. At this pace, surrounded so fully by him, when he has already been fucking her with tongue and fingers for the better part of an hour, she cannot believe she doesn't come, but she does not. He builds her up to a crescendo again and again, but every time she thinks she is about to fall off the edge, he shifts, modulates, building again, her body an instrument he can play in a new key.

This is what it means to be fucked senseless, she thinks at some point, then laughs inwardly at that. The only thought available now is registering her incapacity for thought, her entire perception narrowed to the sensations he is giving her. She can no longer meaningfully distinguish where he ends and she begins, moving fluidly together as if through water from one shape to another, impossibly deepening their connection, yet somehow drifting further away from the finish all the time. At least this is how it feels to her as he turns her over and over, as she pulls him up exactly where she needs him; if she could step outside herself and watch them, perhaps they've never been so raw and animal, crudely rutting against one another. But she is here, inside him as much as herself, this reality they create together, and she knows that can only be beautiful. 

She has no sense of how much time has passed when he stops suddenly, pulling her onto her side next to him, nestled perfectly inside her, but still. 

“What--” she struggles to catch her breath, pushing her hair, now damp with sweat, back from her forehead. “What the fuck...” She laughs at her own desperation, but cannot bring herself to feel any shame. 

“Sorry,” he laughs too, but it ends in a sort of pained groan. “Thought I was gonna pass out.”

She raises her eyebrows, pinching his chest teasingly as she says in mock accusation, “You started this.”

“I did,” he agrees, not betraying a hint of regret.

“Hmm,” she muses, her hand caressing over his chest and coming to rest on his shoulder. “I guess I need to finish it.”

She pushes him firmly onto his back, he rolling away from her with a look of pure, dumbfounded glee. She lets out a playful growl of frustration as his cock springs free of her in the process, quickly rising to throw one leg across him, and settling back down on his hips. 

He looks at her looming above him like a goddess, his eyes still full of lust but now drooping with exhaustion, widening here and there as he takes her in, like a little child determined to stay up late to catch the best part of the show. She smiles, leaning forward to caress his face, her hands sliding down his neck and shoulders, coming to rest at his chest, fingers tangling in the tufts of hair there, her palms very intentionally moving across his nipples.

“Yeah,” he exhales, and she doesn't know if this is a belated confirmation of her proposal, or a simple appraisal of everything he is conscious of now, but either way it is all she needs to rise to her full height, shifting her pelvis against him to let him know she is ready for him.

Lazily he raises her skirt again to make room for her and she adjusts herself around him, breathing a sigh of mixed relief and torment as she takes him in again. He lets the skirt fall, carefully arranging the fabric around her in all directions, the modesty of this gesture when they have just been going so hard at each other making her laugh again, her laugh in turn putting dazed stars in his eyes.

She closes her own, focusing on her rising arousal one more time, gratified by the sure knowledge he is watching her in something like awe, but unable to deal with the way that shatters her now, not just now. She echoes his earlier movements, grinding down on him more forcefully than he is at first entirely prepared for, aware of the hitch of surprise in his breath and every tiny startled groan that comes after. 

It comes back to her then, the image of him beneath her that first time, when everything was new, a surprise to learn what he liked, and equally how much she liked giving it to him. And all of the other times in the years since, rediscovering each other and forging new ground together. They are the accumulation of all of those past selves, everything they have found out along the way, and, god, yes, it felt good to find him wanting her as desperately as he did that first time, looking up at her in plea or prayer, his hands guiding her hips even harder against him, needing it now, fuck, right there. But after a decade of careful study, full knowledge of each other's every instinct and weakness at their disposal, this was better, so much sweeter and deeper, and, and – 

He yells out, pulling her entirely out of her head, aware of nothing but him, his hips thrusting uncontrollably against hers as his orgasm flows through him. He lets out a stream of curses, and she leans down to swallow them in a kiss, continuing to move on him to pull every last wave from his body, and then a moment later she is pulled under herself, exploding with pent-up tension and love. She feels like it goes on forever, and he reaches between them to touch her, pressing her clit just _there_ , sending her over the edge once again, a deeper release than before. He knows, she thinks weakly, he knows every inch of her just that well.

She rolls off him onto her back, moaning as she enjoys every last little aftershock. The back of her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, needing to maintain some contact even as she is too sensitive, too keyed up, to tolerate anything more now. 

“That was --” She starts, trying and failing to form a thought. She licks her lips, relishing everything her body has just been through. “I mean...”

“Oh, shhh,” he quiets her in between labored breaths. “Shush.”

She looks over at him sideways, almost gloating with satisfaction. “We probably don't want to examine that, do we?” 

“I don't,” he says, straining as if even that much required a great deal of effort. With another groan he turns away, collapsing onto his side, utterly spent. 

Diane sits up slightly, watching him, curious. She is tempted to pursue it now, the questions leaping to mind even before she has fully recovered from her orgasm, even while her body is beginning to crave another. Nothing would interest her more than examining it, comparing notes, picking apart every last detail, the better to understand how they could do it all again. Whatever sparked that in him, she had to know. In over a decade together, a decade marked in her memory by amazing sex as much as anything else, it had never been quite like _that_.

She lies back, her head hitting the mattress with a sigh. She brushes errant locks of sweat-sticky hair off her forehead. It was always, always good with him. There was never a way he touched her that failed to make her respond, no orgasm that wasn't fantastic in its own way; hell, she loved it even when she didn't come, a rare enough event with her dogged husband, but still strangely sweet when it happened. But this... She simply will not go another ten years without it, now that they have found it.

She turns to look at his almost lifeless form, biting back a sly smile. One way or the other, she will figure out his secrets, perhaps unknown even to himself. And she trusts he will enjoy the journey, whether he realizes he is on one or not.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey,” Diane whispers, her voice so hoarse and low she surprises herself. She turns on her side and reaches for him, draping her arm across his torso. He flinches slightly at the touch, his body still all pulsing nerves. “You can't fall asleep there. You're on my side.”

“Mmmm,” is all he can manage, groaning as he buries his face deeper into the mattress. 

She laughs throatily, moving closer and wrapping her body around his. One foot slips around his ankle, her hand falling against his chest, idly brushing her fingers through the soft silver hair there. With her chest pressed to his back, her face buried in his neck, she can feel his breath is still slightly labored, his heart struggling to regain its normal beat. She holds him more tightly, willing him to feel the same things in her. 

“Are you hungry?” Kurt's voice snaps her back to consciousness, and she realizes she has dozed off, whether for a few seconds or half an hour she has no idea. 

She stretches languidly, shaking off sleep, unintentionally pressing her body against him again as she extends her arms, eliciting another low groan from him. He rolls over to face her again, his hand coming to rest firmly on her hip as if to hold her a safe distance away. 

“You kill me,” he rumbles, his lips finding hers without ever opening his eyes.

His words and this kiss, deliciously slow and restrained, are all Diane needs to feel that craving for round two begin to stir, but his hand gently refuses her hips' instinctive curl into his. With a sigh she understands he has nothing left to give – and something about that is just as satisfying. 

“Did you say you were hungry?” she remembers, prompting him with a knee against his. Come to think of it, so was she. They had skipped dinner, and worked up quite an appetite besides. 

“Yeah,” he says, almost regretfully, his eyes finally fluttering open. She is aware of the exact moment they focus on her, a small but unmistakable smile ghosting across his face. He runs his hand through her hair, his fingers catching slightly on the sweat-drenched tangle he finds there, and for the first time it occurs to her what a state she must be in. Judging by his deepening smile, he is impressed by the result of their efforts.

She ignores the thrum of desire this awakens again, rising to prop her head up on one elbow. “We have leftovers from last night,” she says, sweetly returning the gesture, pushing one floppy lock of hair off his forehead. 

He nods in simple agreement. That decided, he sits upright with some effort, joints creaking as he stretches, betraying the toll the night has taken on him. “I'll warm it up. You get comfortable, I'll bring it back here.”

“No, no, I'll join you. Just give me a minute?” 

He smiles back at her and shuffles out the door, whether from sheer exhaustion or actual strain she isn't sure, but either way she watches him go with satisfaction, collapsing against the bed again with another soft moan of recalled pleasure. She rubs her eyes, then lets one hand slowly travel the length of her body, bringing to mind his own moving over her. This shadow of arousal is becoming something real and demanding, and briefly she considers touching herself until she comes again, quick and faint but a relief, she could be done before he returns. But hearing him clattering about in the kitchen, she dismisses the thought. Other pleasures draw her, just as sweet.

She rises, letting her shirt fall free of her finally, noticing a small rip in the seam at one shoulder before it falls to the ground. She laughs, glancing back at the bed, able to conjure the exact moment it had happened even if she hadn't been fully aware of it at the time. She unzips her skirt and steps free of it, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she does. She stands tall, regarding herself curiously, admiring even. She can see herself as he sees her, how she wants him to see: proud, wild, well-loved. 

The bra, she decides, can stay on. It suits her, and remembering his ravenous look when his eyes first fell on it, she knows he agrees. She grabs her black silk robe, tying it loosely at her waist. If he's too tired to act, he can still look. With one last smug glance back at her reflection, she approves the way her cleavage teases at the gap in the lapel, her hair falling in a wanton mane of his creation. 

She hadn't realized how hungry she was too until she pads into the kitchen in bare feet, the smell of last night's chicken parm overcoming her. It may only be in her mind, but all of her senses seemed to be in overdrive after particularly good sex, and this had been something else entirely. 

“That smells even better than the first time,” she says softly, alerting him to her presence. He had been standing, his back turned to her, staring out the window. He turns to face her, and she can see for just a moment an expression of – what was it? She wonders. Concern, or just fatigue? But it is gone in a flash, softened as his eyes fall on her, appreciating – thoroughly, if weakly – her choice of what to reveal, and what to conceal. 

He drinks her in as she slowly approaches him, frozen in place apart from his eyes, which can't decide whether to land on her face, her long legs, or openly ogle her breasts as the fabric gapes and closes as she sways nearer. When she is finally just in his reach he reels her in, his hands on either hip, guiding her home. 

She allows herself to be led, deliciously slowly into his orbit, feeling the pull of his desire for her. All question of where his thoughts had been leave her mind, and, she is sure, his too. He is completely present, his limited reserve of energy focused on the effort required to untie that knot and let her robe fall loose to her sides. He sighs, letting his head fall to her shoulder, as if this simple task had used up all he had left and he could fall asleep right here, nestled perfectly between the cold kitchen counter and her soft inviting body.

She laughs, cradling his head against her, absorbed in the perfection of this simple, endless moment. She glances up at the timer: well, endless, or twenty seconds. She would take what she could get. 

When the microwave dings, she feels him jump slightly, jarred back to reality from this waking dream. He extricates himself sadly, torn between competing desires, but returns to the necessary work at hand. He removes the plate and grabs two forks from the drawer. “Want to go back to bed?” 

She shrugs indifferently. “Let's just eat here.”

He nods, moving around the kitchen island opposite her and setting the plate down between them. 

She closes her eyes, savoring the first bite. “This is so good,” she says, and she means the food, yes, but also the company, and everything that passed between them.

“It is,” he agrees, and she doesn't need him to elaborate to know he feels the same. When he said _we live together until we die_ , somehow, she knows, he really meant _late-night leftovers half-naked in our kitchen_. Somehow, it is all the same, and exactly as romantic. Exactly as satisfying as the thunderous orgasm they had just shared. Every minute of their life together. 

She watches him watch her, and she knows that is as far as he wants or needs to think this through. He doesn't have the same voice running through his head, sometimes quieted but never quite stopping, endlessly analyzing, looking for meaning. He is perfectly content, she knows, to let tonight be what it was. But what was it? She cannot entertain his approach for a second before the question arises. If she knew, perhaps she could let it be. She marvels at him, so entirely comfortable in the fact of the present moment, one by one and exactly as they come, without thoughts spiraling into implications and potentialities, drifting through past and future trying to knit them into one. He feels no need to churn through all that, and somehow he arrives at the very same conclusions. 

She laughs finally at the futility of it all, a deep belly laugh that comes out of nowhere, her hair falling over her face as she doubles over. That play, her work, the supposed justice system, political outrages that keep her up at night... She is surrounded by absurdity, and perhaps this is of a piece with all that: knowing him as well as she does her own soul, connected in ways she simply cannot intellectualize.

“What is it?” he asks, but doesn't wait for an answer before returning her laughter with laughter. He reaches out, his fingertips grazing the back of her hand. “What?”

She looks up at him now and brushes a strange, stray tear from her eye. He has asked her the same question she held back.

“Who knows?” she laughs again, realizing that, too, may be his only answer. “Oh,” she sighs, brought back to earth by his gentle, calm gaze. “Oh... I love you.” 

“Well, I love you too,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. 

“I think too much.”

“Sometimes,” he says slowly with feigned caution, his deepening smile betraying his true thoughts. 

She licks her lips slowly, and sets the fork down. She knows he can sense the instant something has changed, alert to this subtle shift in her mood just as she had been to his at the play. He is serious now, because she has become serious. Perhaps that is all it was, nothing more mysterious: a spark, a response, a chain reaction. She reverses the position of their hands, her fingernails grazing the sensitive underside of his wrist as she had done earlier at the play. A spark. 

“Diane...” he starts, but before he can form much less complete the thought she has turned and moved to stand in front of him again, her face angled up toward his, dangerously close.

“Just make me feel,” she whispers, a little yelp of anticipation and something like victory escaping her as she jumps up to sit on the counter with his assistance, her legs instinctively falling around him to make room. 

“This is crazy,” he breathes, though this hardly stops him from kissing her, perhaps all the assessment she need ever have made of this entire night. 

She shifts her weight on the counter, wriggling so that the robe drops open at her sides again, welcoming him to touch her, and he doesn't hesitate for a moment. 

The dull ache that had never quite abated is so quickly stoked to a pounding need. She reaches between them, grasping his cock more forcefully than intended, and he groans in a mix of pain and pleasure, still so sensitive from before. “Sorry,” she whispers, but she cannot bring herself to feel sorry, or to wait even a second longer than she has to, moving her hand encouragingly up and down his length. 

“It's– fuck,” he blurts out, his hips moving in time with her hand, powerless to resist, his forehead pressed against hers, his face contorted in concentration. He lets out a strained chuckle, shaking his head. “What are you doing to me,” and in his voice it isn't even a question. 

She leans into him, reveling in it as his head falls down to kiss and lick at the hollow of her throat, across the expanse of her collarbone. His cock is hard in her grasp now, straining for her, but she knows he is waiting for whatever sign she chooses to give him, whether she should choose to pull him up to her or push his face down to her core. All the delicious possibilities almost dumbfound her into inaction, but she knows they won't last long, either of them, and above all she just wants to feel him within her again. 

She releases her grip on him and touches his shoulder so gently, but he understands her meaning perfectly and responds at once, rising again to stand before her. He looks down at her, his eyes wild with desire as before, tinged now with exhaustion and determination, holding her gaze for an agonizingly long moment before he inclines his head to kiss her soundly. It sounds girlish and laughable to her as the thought flits through her mind, but there is no other way she can describe the way he kisses her sometimes except that it's something out of an old Hollywood movie, some powerful culmination, decisive and strong, and the music should swell and there should be a fade to black but he just keeps going, deepening it into something profoundly erotic one could scarcely imagine after the credits play.

She is so distracted by the sweet intensity of this – him bending her back slightly over the counter, her head cradled like some precious object in one hand – that she barely registers his other hand at her knee, opening her up for him, sliding inside her with one forceful movement.

“Kurt – god –” she lets out as she adjusts herself to him, her legs naturally clamping back down around his hips to hold him there. As he fills her up, not moving except to press imperceptibly deeper against her, she isn't sure now whether the throbbing is her own or his, or both, pulsing in unison.

He buries his head against his neck and begins to move inside her, and she wraps her arms and legs around him tightly, letting him find a rhythm, taking it all in for now. His hips move languidly against her at first, caring less for speed than intensity, pressing into her hard and slow each time. She shifts, finding that sweet angle where he presses against her every inch of the way, and fills her almost entirely. She presses hard back against him at the height of each movement, wanting him impossibly deeper. The tension is so delicious she feels like she might shatter the second he touches her any more powerfully.

But he does, and she bears down, her mouth widening into a scream that doesn't quite come. Already it is building into something hard and inevitable inside her, and she wraps her arms around his back so tightly she lifts off the counter every few strokes. He holds her hips steady, taking the force of her body crashing hard against his at the end of every thrust. She does scream then, her release coming sooner than she expected, and she is only dimly aware of his yelling out moments later. She tries to collect herself enough to be present for his pleasure, but she is still coming in shallower, slower waves as she feels him pulsing, and then withdraw. 

“Diane...” he breathes, his fingers faltering to smooth her robe back over her body. She beams up at him, trailing little nipping kisses along his cheek and jaw while he tries to recover his senses.

“I think we'll sleep well tonight,” she says lightly, letting him help her slide back to her feet.

“I'll say.” He shakes his head, reaching past her to take their shared plate and set it down in the sink. He doesn't have an ounce of energy left to clean it tonight.

“Come on.” She grins, reaching out her hand for him as she turns to leave the room. “Let's go to bed.”

Kurt takes her hand and follows her out, flicking off the kitchen light as they go. He doesn't let it drop again until they have returned to their room, moving to sort out the mess they have made of their bed.

It's only after she has gone into the bathroom that she hears, faintly but unmistakably, the click of the lock on their door. Most nights, he waits until she is otherwise occupied to flip it, trying to spare her the reminder of why he installed it, why he maintains this nightly ritual. In pretending she does not notice, she is reminded, every time. But the predominant feeling this stirs now is how well she is cared for, how much love is in his every simple gesture toward her. She smiles as she hears it. She has almost forgotten everything else. 

A few minutes later he joins her in the bathroom, resuming their rituals of moving around each other as if this had been any other night of their married life. She catches his eye in the mirror as they stand side by side, brushing their teeth. Every bit of it was good, right down to the choreography of their spitting in the sink. So good.

She slides between the sheets he has turned down for them, reaching over to turn off her light as she does. Moments later, he mirrors her, coming to rest on his back with a sigh of exhaustion she knows he has more than earned. She watches him, reaching out to touch his bare arm lightly, her fingernails grazing his skin as they had done before. 

“Don't try to get me started again,” he laughs, not opening his eyes. “It won't work.”

“I thought it was relaxing,” she says, her fingers stilling, but resting there lightly. 

He turns to look at her then, casting a meaningful glance before he closes his eyes again. Within a minute or two, he is asleep.

Diane watches him, as ever astonished by how quickly he can find rest. She is envious, her own always-racing thoughts often keeping her up an hour or more later than him. But tonight she is grateful for these moments to herself, studying him in the dark. She focuses on his breathing, trying to match hers to it, the surest way to bring on sleep when she can manage it. We matter, she tells herself, a meditation of a kind. Nothing matters but this. She closes her eyes, breathing in and out, in perfect sync with him. She breathes in and out, and it all simply fades away.


End file.
